Dalma. Orza Dalma.
Anna’s cheeks flushed. “Your wife is the orza?”
“Yes, that’s right.” The man’s humble smile remained. “My name is Jalwar. Should I be offended that my name is beyond her lips?”
“Maybe she told me before,” Anna explained. If Hazan’s bonding system was anything like Rzolka’s, she’d made an even greater mistake. “Is that your palace?”
He laughed again, his voice almost melodic. “A joint holding. But Dalma has far more interest in politics and trade than myself, ah?” He grinned to himself this time. “It is a world of shifting sands, and my mind has no way about it.” He cleared his throat. “Sands, always shifting . . .”
“My apologies,” Anna said, clinging to her still-raw embarrassment.
“For what?”
“I haven’t addressed you properly.”
“I am called Jalwar.” He laughed. “Names are not such a binding thing within these confines, I assure you. And as I said, political events hold little of the shaping for my world. The title Orzi has not been used in some years.”
Anna stared at the man, taking in his rounded stomach and hairy jowls. Surely he did something more than sit here in his office. “Do you command the armies?”
“Oh, never. Bloodshed is too bitter.” He gestured to the office around him. “My place is within these walls.”
“Doing what?” Anna asked. It sounded harsh, but the man took no offense. There was a kindly understanding to him, and a lack of decorum she found refreshing.
“I sweep tiles,” Jalwar said, scratching at his beard. His thinking expression dissolved a moment later. “Ah, it is more humor, Anna. I lead this place. Surely not the brightest, or the wisest, but such a duty is a rewarding task, I assure you. And, as you can see, it’s a rather quiet affair.” He shrugged. “I was surprised to see that you visited us.”
“I came with Shem.” Yet as she spoke her mind latched onto the phrase: A rewarding task. She pored over the concept in her mind like a long lost trinket. Then she saw the growing confusion on Jalwar’s face. “The Huuri—Shem is one of the Huuri.”
“Ah, of course.” His rolling eyes suggested the name was obvious yet carelessly forgotten at some time. As if Shem was a treasured child from long ago, despite the two surely never meeting. “He’ll find the mass uplifting, I’m sure. But what about you? I’ve heard many things about you, but I never developed the strong heart to seek you out. I could not find your trail at the First Moon Gala, either.”
Anna paled, realizing she’d spent most of the night in her chambers reading a tome on numbers. “I didn’t think Dalma was so fond of me.”
“Yes, oh, yes.” He shifted his jaw thoughtfully. “You are good friends with Konrad, yes? He tells me of you.”
“I didn’t think he knew much about me, either,” Anna said, hoping, somewhat foolishly, that he did. Despite four cycles of relative nearness, he’d never sought her out, nor had he spoken to her while she was in the lecture areas. However imagined, she blamed an upsurge in duties. “There isn’t much to tell about me.”
“Is that so?” Jalwar asked. “I heard you’re from a family of venturers in Rzolka. You must have seen quite a bit of the land.”
Anna held back a frown, unsure who’d told Jalwar such a story. Venturers were a hard, determined breed, more suited to colonizing mountains and hunting monsters than tending to riding posts. But such lies weren’t started without reason. “I saw some.”
“I know very few who have traveled to these lands willingly. It takes a brave girl to do this.”
A braver girl than Anna, it seemed. “It isn’t as harsh as I was told.”
“To its credit, my friend, you are in the softest corner of Malijad. There are some areas of Hazan that exist only for sand and sun, ah? You could ride your horse for a thousand leagues and find only disappointment.”
“I suppose.”
“So why did you come here, my friend?”
It was almost impossible to hide the unease. “A change. Something new.”
“Ah, forgive me.” Jalwar waved his hand. “I meant to here, to this hall.”
All at once, the lingering urges born from cycles of monotony and nightmares and guilt surged up in her. She didn’t know whether to sob or to tell a tale that opened on a foggy morning, with a trail of blood leading from Bylka to the northern cities, to thoughts of escaping and finding refuge in Malchym’s red-tiled halls before she took a wicked man’s hand in partnership. She wanted to tell him about Bora’s certainty and the blackness of her own heart, about how she could find forgiveness and change within their embrace, about how many lives she’d stolen and could never repair without devoting herself to their hall.
One breath away from release, she faltered.
“I just wanted to accompany Shem,” Anna said softly, glancing away. “He came from one of the halls in Qersul.”
“Qersul?” Jalwar asked. “What a journey for such a young one. I’ve met the head of their hall; he’s a charming man. Perhaps, in the coming cycles, your friend may visit Qersul again.”
Anna imagined Shem’s eager face upon hearing the news and couldn’t help but smile in turn. Even as her own eyes dimmed, surely imperceptible to anybody but Bora. “He would love it.”
“I’ll see what can be done.” Jalwar leaned forward. “Did Dalma tell you of these halls?”
“Very little.” Her thoughts sank back into gardens and talks of Katil Anfel. “Can I ask why you wanted to see me?” She realized the apparent rudeness of the question. “Why you were eager to meet me, I mean.”
“The hayajara—forgive me, scribes—hold a special place for the Halshaf,” Jalwar said. He glanced down at his missives with a nostalgic smile. “A most sacred one, you see. Did Dalma tell you of this, I wonder?”
Anna leaned forward. “She didn’t.”
“Curious.” Jalwar’s face grew stone-like. “Perhaps if you have time to speak with her alone, she can say more, ah?”
Alone. The sentiment behind that word chilled Anna. Away from Patvor, away from men who were frightened by the most placid thoughts . . .
“It’s easily understood, I assume?” Jalwar continued. “The Halshaf make worship of life. And what more life-love could the avatar of such a cause possess, I ask, than purest saving of life?” He glanced at Anna’s hands. “Your kind is honored with good sense.”
Anna thought of the men in white robes, of the blades secured beneath their fabric. “Does every hall have a scribe? To keep the warriors safe, I mean.”
The northerner’s eyes crinkled. “Warriors?” He considered the word. “Ah, ah, the alakeph, no?” Anna nodded. “They do not accept these marks, child. They make deference to those in need of the scarring.”
Those in need. Emine’s boiling lungs, soldiers stalking in the night. . . . “Shem said that they guard the halls. But this hall is near the gates.” She squinted with coy innocence, trying to approach Bora’s information about the orza’s sworn guardians as obliquely as possible. “They protect the kales without any markings?”
“Fear is not so strong to them,” Jalwar said with a shrug. “Death is accepted. Their pockets receive no gemstones, no salt. They receive only love from those who are guarded. And, of course, adoration from the life-givers. From the World-Womb itself.” He inclined his head in reverence. “Strong men may take many paths, Anna. Theirs is most noble, I think. Many come from fortunate wombs and warm families. They know little of hardships to which they’re bound.”
Fighting with no promise of recompense seemed outlandish, but Anna couldn’t deny the beauty of their mission, and deeper still, the hope of redemption through selflessness. She felt a sudden twinge of shame. Compared to the Alakeph, what had she really done? “You said something about my kind,” she said, steering her thoughts to that of aid. “Do they mark the foundlings?”
Jalwar gave a weary smile. “They would, if such things were not tales.”
“I’m sorry,” Anna said, straightening in her seat. “I don’t follow.”
“Your arrival—ah, of one such as yourself—is a thing told by many halls. One may almost term it prophecy.” His eyes narrowed. “If one believes in these things.”
Anna leaned closer. She’d heard numerous tales of scribes’ origins, but none were true, and certainly not the work of fate. “Prophecy?”
“An old tale, my friend. Likely nothing.”
“I’d like to know anyway.”
“Well.” His eyes dimmed. “In some stories, a hayajara has stumbled upon the Halshaf’s halls and given marks to the sick.”
“There’s only one tale about it happening? It hasn’t really happened?”
“A tale may hold some wisp of truth, no?”
One tale. The singular nature of the story put Anna on edge, suggesting that no other scribe would be foolish enough to offer their marks in charity. But upon realizing how many blades had been aimed against her, it didn’t seem so unlikely. She belonged to a rare type, demonized and revered and hunted, and few had the chance to give away runes without attracting the eyes of the powerful. As with others, she’d learned that fact the hard way. “In this tale, did the scribe have a name?”
“It depends on the teller, yes? In some variations, they did.” Jalwar looked down in thought. “It’s an easy thing to say, ah, yes, destiny led them. The stars led them, the jinn. It is a question beyond me, certainly.”
“Maybe they wanted to help.” Anna struggled to meet Jalwar’s eyes. “Maybe they wanted a different life than what they had.”
“Perhaps,” Jalwar said. He lowered his voice, eyeing her considerately as he spoke. “In this tale, they healed the foundlings. This is a sacred task of the Halshaf, ah? To heal those who are not strong enough to mend themselves. Some simply do not have enough food.” Something jarred his expression—sudden remembrance, maybe, or the hopeful bloom in Anna’s eyes—and forced a dismissive wave of the hand. “But in this hall, such a tale does not sustain our hope. Your gifts are suited to the kales, my friend, and Dalma has always been generous with her donations.”
“I see.” She hadn’t expected to be so swiftly cast aside, especially after hearing the legends about her kind. It was a place where she was prophesied, and that was sure to erase a heart’s crimes. “If you’re an orzi, why do you need donations from Dalma?”
“I live in the way of the Halshaf,” he explained. “A donation is worth more than taking, yes?” Anna shrugged. “Your point is strong though. In many places, only the High-Mothers lead the halls. They do not have the proper, ah,” he said, searching for a word, “connections to secure their supplies. Such halls, in time, will expand in the shadow of towns and cities. I’m sure of this. Many will rival Qersul: A lovely city, and not in want of anything, ah?”
“Shem said it was beautiful,” Anna said. She envisioned the Huuri boy on dustier streets, without aid or warmth or the promise of a next meal. “What would’ve happened if he went to a hall in the south?”
Jalwar’s eyes wrinkled. “I cannot say, Anna. Not all in the south are so fond of our philosophy. We have some allies—of this, you must know—but many halls struggle. Medicine is a rare thing in Rzolka, ah? They lack herbs from the plains.”
“Do the children survive there?”
His stare crept away, uncertain. “In some places, yes.”
As Anna sat on the stool, listening to the laughter and harps and knowing the power that rested in her fingertips, she felt a pang of sickness. She imagined what the south and north would be like if rulers never existed, and those with gifts were used for benevolence. If they were rewarded for service, not submission.
“Are you all right, Anna?”
“Yes, just a bit tired.” Visions of such a world were wasted thoughts. Even so, they nested in her heart, unwilling to dismantle themselves so easily. When the time is right, they’ll surface, she assured herself. “Are there sick children here?”
“Always. There are seven halls in Malijad, and we are the most capable, yet.”
Anna studied his wariness, wondering what could plunge a man into silence so quickly.
“Not all illnesses can be cured through herbs,” Jalwar finished.
Something conspiratorial sat in the air, as though his mere suggestion, and Anna’s implicit understanding, had swept them both into something dark. Anna glanced over her shoulder, her movements demure so as to avoid raising the northerner’s guard. “I could take a look.”
But the moment vanished with Jalwar’s warning hum. “Quite sweet of you, but Dalma has very clear instructions.”
“What are they?”
“Far too burdensome for one such as yourself, I assure you. Not all of these instructions are created by her alone, you see?”
Anna frowned, already knowing the culprits of that statement. “But I could help.” I need to help.
“I know, my friend. You have a warm heart about you.” The northerner gave a sad smile. “Alas, your markings are not made for this world. They belong in Kales Emirahn,” he said, gesturing to the palace outside. “Dalma has told me of your cause, Anna. It’s a wonderful thing. A very rewarding thing.” Regret dampened his words.
“I could speak to her,” Anna said. “I could ask if—”
“No, no,” Jalwar said, gently but firmly. “Some rules cannot be smeared, unfortunately.”
“Not all rules are right.”
“Ah, this is true. And yet . . . and yet . . .” Jalwar shrugged with heavy shoulders. “The Halshaf smile upon anybody who wishes to lend aid, Anna. Your gesture is enough.”
“What about my hands?” Anna smiled as she raised her arms. “Did she say I can’t wrap bandages?”
“Fair words.” Jalwar rubbed his chin. “Such things are not beneath your rank?”
But rank had nothing to do with it. She remembered all too well how to sing eastern lullabies and tuck blankets around crooked bones. “It would be an honor.”
When the Halshaf sisters introduced her to the gathered mass using ruinspeak, she became keenly aware of her strangeness. Some had seen her kind here before, she gathered, but others crept up to prod her and scamper away with wild eyes.
From their stares alone, Anna envisioned worlds of ash and famine. Some had eyes like those of Bylka’s abandoned cavern effigies, hollow and weathered into pits, carrying secrets that she didn’t dare to probe. Few carried their birth-given names.
“Hello,” was all she could muster in their dialect.
At first there was only a rustle of movement among their ranks, children picking at rug tassels or sharing uncertain blinks in the candlelight.
Perhaps they read her and the brutal way of her own hands. In the end, she’d only break them, only—
A Hazani boy with burn-mottled flesh crawled free of the gathering, filling the silence with hardwood creaking under fragile palms. He wrapped a hand around Anna’s ankle, looked up to meet her stare, and offered a budding smile.
Hours passed in the cloisters, and her fingers grew shriveled and red from pressing sponges to the foreheads of dying children. String-wrapped bundles of herbs, burning atop the braziers and candles around the cloisters, gradually nauseated her. She was surrounded by blistered and scarred northerners who knew nothing of her yet approached her with scrolls to read in the river-tongue, or bearing carved toys they offered as gifts. Some of them ventured to climb into her lap, nestle in its crux, and drift off to sleep with gentle smiles. They clung to her shirt as if she were their mother.
The thinking mind lectured her while she worked, assuring her that many of the foundlings would die before the next cycle, and that her efforts bandaging, feeding, and washing were a mockery of her gifts. It whispered that their affection was premature and unearned
, and worse yet, the product of kinless children who knew little of love, who could only offer the same imitation that Anna supplied in return.
She cherished every moment.
Her perception of time returned when withering daylight crept through the cloister windows. When she heard a craftsman screaming for mercy, for his breaking bones, for the missing young girl he knew nothing about. Three Dogwood men soon burst into the atrium with primed ruji, their ceramic armor and dark veils making them indistinguishable from the soldiers who brought ruin to Rzolka’s enemies in the night. “Kuzashur,” they bellowed in unison, hoarse river-tongue drowning the protests of the Halshaf sisters and Alakeph, “you have been summoned.”
Chapter 20
Drunken shouting and the clattering of metal on stone echoed through the kales as Anna and Shem ascended the living stairway, flanked by Konrad and his detachment of soldiers. Konrad’s unfailing boyish smile should’ve calmed her, but the rune shining faintly through his neck wrap made his role all too clear. He’d been waiting at the market’s capsule with his regiment, the only one among them to keep his blade sheathed and hood pinned back.
“Don’t worry,” Konrad whispered as they drew close to the upper lip of the ramp, stepping over painted spines and thighs. “Who could be angry with a face like yours, panna?”
Anna saw exactly what she’d anticipated. Exactly what she’d feared.
The tracker, Nacek, Teodor, and Josip stood among the orza’s garden, surrounded by throngs of unarmored Dogwood captains and dancing girls. All of them held flasks or goblets or bunches of dark grapes, stumbling through the archways and over exposed roots, their features flushed red and glazed by liquor. Some collided with columns, shattering porcelain mugs in their hands, while others played pipes or grabbed at breasts.
At the center of the spectacle, the orza sat slumped in her throne, her eyes haggard and her face unpainted. And just behind the throne stood the orza’s scribe, whose hood concealed everything except her scarred jaw.
“She returns to us!” Teodor yelled, his lazy stare the first to fall upon Anna. He drank from his goblet with one hand braced on a tree, a wicker hat lolling atop his head and boots brushing the soil. “Our goddess, our goddess . . .”
Scribes Page 22